


On videotape

by orphan_account



Series: Run [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Anal Sex, Child Abuse, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Racist Slurs, Victim Blaming, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bro follows up with Dave after spring break, and John finds himself unwitting witness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's been just about a week (5 days, 8 hours, 32 minutes to be precise - not that you were counting) since John went back to Washington. You've been on videochat with him every evening since, 6:13 on the dot, as soon as he gets home from school. Most of the time it just consists of watching him do his homework, or jokingly brush you off when you try to distract his attention solely back to yourself. In truth, it's not much different from before he came to visit. There are little tells here and there - the way he'll smile into his camera, a little more shy than before, or bite his lower lip. They remind you of spring break, let you know he's thinking about it too.  


The two of you didn't take things much further than you got on his third day in town. In fact, after that first afternoon of calming John down, comforting him, getting him off after getting his ass whupped by Bro, you mostly just stuck to making out. Granted, you did a _lot_ of making out. You felt a little like you were packing two years of covert sexual frustration into that half week, plus a little extra to compensate for the knowledge that you would probably never see him again in real life. His last night in town, 6 hours and 53 minutes before he was supposed to be on a flight home, you'd sucked him off, blankets pulled over your head to stifle the paranoia of being barged in on. It felt like a consolation prize, an apology, a final, doomed kiss. He came down your throat and asked if you'd ever been with anyone else and you'd laughed it off and changed the subject. Lying to John's face made you feel like a shithead, but lies of omission softened things a bit. He let it slide, told you that you were just so _good!_ is all. He let you kiss him with the taste of cum still on your lips, tentative and a little curious. When you woke the next morning with his arms wrapped around your waist, you cursed your alarm and the plane that was waiting to take him away.  


If you were realistic, you knew John would never come back to Texas after what happened with Bro. If you were honest, which you weren't to John because you just didn't have the heart to let him down like that, you also knew there was no way in hell Bro would ever let you visit Washington. Ever. You were fortunate as it was for the relatively Bro-free week the two of you had enjoyed.  
Ever since John got back home, Bro has been conspicuously scarce. You wouldn't complain, it's meant you can videochat with John all you please, but it puts you on edge. You keep expecting him to jump out of nowhere, keep looking over your shoulder. You fret about him finding out about what you and John got up to, wonder if he already knows, what he'll do if he does.  


It's about a quarter to ten, closing in on John's hilariously early bedtime, when you finally get your answer. You wish you hadn't.  


A heavy, gloved hand falls on the back of your neck and your spine snaps straight and tense. John notices, of course, asks if you're okay. A thumb traces the ridges of your spine, a silent order, and you tell him you're fine, you've got to go though.  
"Bro's bitching at me." Your voice doesn't even waver. John nods sympathetically, tries to say goodbye, but fingers are already curling around knots of your hair and you close out of the client in a rush. Cotton and denim rustles and you feel Bro lean down next to your ear. Fingers hook the collar of your tee.  
"Get rid'a this." The low words send a chill down your spine and you suppress a shudder. You feel obedient and well-trained as you silently comply, a broken little puppy, licking its master's face in appeasement.  


Most people don't fuck their pets, though.  
Most people don't fuck their kid brother, either.  


Your shirt pools on the floor in front of your desk and a single hand swivels your computer chair. You know better than to look Bro directly in the face without his command.  
"Y'enjoy your little vacation with that slanty twink'a yours?" The way Bro so causally insults John makes you want to punch him in the throat. You ball your hands into fists until your fingernails cut into your palms and you bite the inside of your cheek. With a mocking chuckle, Bro continues.  
"What? Were y'hopin' his little, yellow prick might be small enough I wouldn't notice?"  
"We didn't fuck," you spit angrily. The energy in the room shifts abruptly, sending your stomach into curling, twisting knots. Bro says nothing and you scramble to cover up your backtalk.  
"I- I was good, Bro," you insist weakly. "I mean, okay, we fooled around a bit. But we didn't do more'n jerk each other off. I know better'n that, Bro. I know only...you're allowed."  


It makes you nauseous just saying shit like this out loud. The words seem to appease Bro, though. He pats your cheek gently, condescendingly, fingers trailing down the side of your neck, tracing along your collarbone.  
"Good," his touch, the tone of his voice makes your stomach churn and your throat tight. "Y'washed yourself after lettin' that yellow monkey touch ya, right?"  
You nod miserably, rewarded by another word of approval from Bro, a trailing of his fingers over your bare chest.  
"Go lie down," he orders, stepping back a little to give you a path to your bed. As you drag yourself to your feet and past him, he cops a handful of ass through your raggedy trackpants. "Lose these too."  


You stand beside your bed as you strip, staring down at the thin sheets, the threadbare blanket you've had since you were eight. You hope your pillows don't still smell like John, otherwise Bro will be pissed. You hate it when he does it in here. Nothing in the world makes you feel more insecure than Bro invading your space like this.  
You lie face-down, naked on top of your bedclothes, bundle a pillow under your chest and rest your chin on it. Over by your computer you hear the click of the mouse. When you look, Bro has pesterchum open, going through your more recent logs with John. A satisfied smirk lights his face. You look away, back down at your mattress, hear him straighten up from your desk. The jingle of his belt prefaces his words and you press your mouth to your pillow.  


"You're really into this little slope, aren'cha?" The edge of the bed sinks under the weight of his knee. "You didn't tell 'im nothin' about us, did'ja? You're smarter'n that." You nod desperately, clenching your eyes shut. Bro practically coos a "Good" as he runs a slow stroke up your spine. His hand retraces its path, back down to the curve of your pelvis, as the rest of his weight joins his knee beside you.  


"It's for your own sake, y'know?" He cups one asscheek in the palm of his hand. A shaking gasp escapes you when his thumb swipes the length of your crack and he answers with a rumbling sound of approval.  
"Even a buck-toothed freak like him would see what a disgustin' little pervert y'are if he knew about this." Bro's hot breath washes over the back of your neck. You bury your face in your pillow to muffle the whine that claws up out of the back of your throat. "Man, he'd fuckin' hate you if he knew what a whore y'are." Bro squeezes your ass again. "Shit, I'd hate a fuckin' cockslut like you if y'weren't so fuckin' good at it." You can hear the chuckle in his voice and the jingle of his belt as he pushes his jeans halfway down his thighs. Bro loves fucking you with most of his clothes on. It makes you feel cheap, as a denim-clad knee pushes between your bare thighs, nudges them apart. He palms your buttocks with both hands, spreading them as he angles his hips down towards you. You hear him sigh and you choke on your breath as he runs the length of his stiff cock along your asscrack. He nestles himself there, squeezing your cheeks around his swollen girth before running his hands up your sides, bending over you. Bro's weight pushes you down and his mouth finds the tender curve where your shoulder slopes up into your neck, biting and sucking the sensitive skin there. With one arm he reaches past you, and you know he's grabbing the lube he keeps stashed in one of the cinderblocks that support your mattress.  


"That gook kid, though, man," Bro's voice is light, conversational, even over the sound of him flicking open the plastic lid and the feel of him rutting into the crevice of your ass. "Y'think a kid like him wants to be seen with a whore like you?" Against your pillow, out of Bro's view, you bite your lower lip. "Y'think he'd even wanna talk t'you if he knew what a slut y'are?" Bro's knuckles brush against your ass as he cursorially slicks himself, occasionally slides the head of his cock along your cleft. You whimper despite your best efforts, trying and failing to not let his words get to you.  
You know he's right. You know that no matter how kind, or understanding, or supportive John may be, if he knew how many times you've spread your legs and let your brother fuck you - how many times he's made you cum - he'd never want to look at you again. He'd never have wanted to be your friend if he had known what you were actually like.  
Bro pushes into you roughly and the pain makes your throat close in a panic. You hear his grunt of approval when you tighten around the head of his dick reflexively. He slips his arms under your chest, laying against your back and hooking his hands on your shoulders. It halts your automatic impulse to scramble away when he forces the rest of his length into your body with a single thrust. Your fingers clutch your pillow against your face and a sob is strangled and silenced before it escapes your throat. Bro's mouth finds your neck, teeth latching onto an earlobe as he rides out your bucking and struggling.  


"Don't be gettin' too big on yourself, kiddo," he reminds you, snapping his hips against your rear. Your eyes burn and you feel like every single one of your organs is going to shove its way out of your throat. Bro's voice lowers to a growl against your skin.  
"Ain't no one ever gonna love a whore like you."  


There's a nauseating feel of his lips curling into a smirk as the first sob escapes you. His words rob you of any last shreds of resistance and you bury your face in your pillow, losing yourself in the stabbing pain your broken, shameful, treacherous body craves.


	2. Chapter 2

It's hard to believe it hasn't even been a week since you got back home. You miss Dave already. You missed him as soon as you'd got on the plane; you miss him when you're at school; you miss him every part of the day you're not video chatting him. It should strike you as hilarious how ridiculously lovesick you are right now but, honestly, you're too busy missing Dave to notice.  


Since the end of spring break, you've had a bit more time to think things over. Less distracting make-out sessions and more mind-numbing classes have given you plenty of time with your brain. You've decided that you still don't think you're gay. You definitely haven't started checking out other guys before track or anything, and the girl who sits kitty-corner in front of you in calc still has the most amazing rack you've ever seen on someone your age. At the same time, though, thinking about Dave, and spring break, and Dave-and-Spring-Break is a new pastime in which you're pretty okay with engaging. In fact, it seems like Dave at some point decided to team up with Miss Calculus to co-sponsor a few midday field trips to Awkward Bonerville this past week. Not to mention the handful of solo evening excursions you've undertaken, armed only with the memories of his calloused fingers, his lips wrapped around your junk.  
In fact, you're pretty sure you just think Dave is pretty great. Not that you didn't before - it's just that now you kind of want him around all the time. Video chatting is great and all, but you're psyched for the summer, when you can invite him up to stay for a bit, and you'll be able to elbow each other over stupid video games and kiss his face all you want. Dave keeps being a little dodgy about visiting, but you understand. He's probably embarrassed about Bro being a completely creepy dick to both of you. Also, judging by the state of his apartment, he might not even be able to afford something like a plane ticket.  
That's fine, though. You're sure you can convince your dad to pay for his flight. You've just gotta get Dave's stubborn ass to accept the offer, then it'll be at least a month of best broship and, okay, maybe a little making out. He could probably stand a break from his brother too.  


You think you would have to be pretty crazy to not have lost most of the respect you had for Bro after what happened during spring break. You actually can't think about The Incident very much because you inevitably get fairly furious about the whole thing, and impotent rage never did anyone any good. More than anything, you're mad on Dave's behalf. Sure, Bro may have grossly overstepped his bounds when he punished you, but it just makes your stomach curl into angry little knots to think that your best friend was subject to that sort of treatment on a regular basis. It also makes you feel a little ashamed when you think about how oblivious you were, how obvious in retrospect it is that Dave had a violent living situation. Every weird injury he's had and every awkward diversion from the subject of his brother falls into place perfectly when you think about it, and you hate yourself for not getting it until it was shoved in your face.  
Tonight on chat, when you see Dave go tense and rush to get off the computer with an apology and the explanation that his brother's fucking with him, you can't help but clench your fists in frustration. You mask your emotions, smile and try to tell him goodnight, but the feed cuts off before you finish your sentence. Affronted, you remind yourself that there's only two months left of school. Only two months until summer break and then you can get Dave out of there, and maybe now would be a good time to ask your dad about plane tickets. Just as you're rising from your seat to head down to the kitchen, you hear an alert from pesterchum. Glancing back at your monitor, Dave is inviting you to video chat. Again. With a bemused huff, you sit back down and accept his invite.  


"What the hell, dude?" you chuckle, smiling until you actually look at the feed. Dave's seat is empty, his shitty webcam not picking up much further than the immediate area in front of his desk. You can make out movement, almost indistinguishable in the dark of his room. Bro's voice, however, comes through clear, makes your stomach sink.  
The first thing you hear is him mention you, although he switches your name out with an insult that would normally make you livid. At the moment, however, you are more concerned with the panic that he found out about what happened between you and Dave, that he's probably a homophobic, that you just heard his belt and oh god, he's going to beat Dave and it'll be your fault! But then his tone drops, muffled and unintelligible, reminding you of the moment he'd let you off his lap, softly mocking you for getting a hard-on while being spanked. It makes you feel slightly nauseous, realization dawning slowly in your mind. You see the white of Bro's shirt, hunched over the spot where Dave's bed should be, and it finally hits you.  


The sound of Dave's gasp cuts across your speakers and you're frozen in your seat. You hear Bro's voice, low and mocking and only occasionally intelligible. He's telling Dave horrible things; cruel, untrue things about you; calling him hateful names. There's a sudden flurry of movement, a gloating sound from Bro, a choked, stuttered noise you would never have imagined hearing from Dave. You don't know what to do. You want to make it stop, but there's 2500 miles between you and these hardly discernible, jerky movements, this rustle of cloth and this slap of skin, the gasps that just barely resemble your best friend's voice. You feel sick to your stomach, dizzy. Your face is hot and you've locked your jaw, but you can't look away or shut down the program. Your hands clench the edge of your chair and you can feel your heart pounding in your throat, your breath coming in shallow little gasps.  
When the first sob breaks over your speakers, your breath hitches. Dave's voice, the coarse, desperate sound of him crying, makes your chest heave, your body convulse. You bite your lower lip as tears spill over, down your cheeks. You hate yourself a little for it. You have no right - not when you're here, safe; not when you can hear Dave sobbing, raw and in pain.  
You can tell Bro's done when you make out his hiss and his grunt. His voice is still low, taunting, when you hear him tell Dave, "Get over yerself, little dude." The defeated moan that answers him makes your chest tighten. He chuckles and you hear the jingle of his belt, the crackle of his zipper. It makes you choke down a sob and a wave of nausea. His legs pass into view, gloved hands buckling his belt, and then he's out of sight entirely.  


You don't know how much time passes listening to Dave's pained sobbing, staring down at your shaking hands, still chewing your lip to keep your own tears silent. When he eventually quiets down to sniffling and little, hiccuping breaths, you lean forward tentatively. You wipe your face, taking a deep, shaky breath before you speak.  
"Dave?"  
You hear him gasp a panicked, "What the fuck?!" in response. A thud makes you jump a little. You repeat his name, more frantic this time, only to be answered by a mournful groan. Dave staggers into view. He carries himself low to the ground, most of his weight supported on his desk. When he tries to lean forward, he stumbles, just barely catching himself in time to stop his chin from smacking into the desktop. The sight makes you cup both hands over your mouth, suck in a dry sob. Dave rights himself, sways a little. His face is splotchy - flushed and a little puffy from crying. His shades are missing and his eyes seem unfocused, lifeless, until he raises them to yours. You meet his gaze and see them fill with shame and despair. His mouth twists a little. He shakes his head, leaning more of his weight against the table. He breaks eye contact. You see his face fall, his mouth twist into a defeated grimace. He shakes his head again, more violently, sways a little. A small, sad moan sounds over your speakers and you see him reach for the keyboard.  
"No, Dave, wait!"  


You jolt forward, but the feed is cut before you can even finish your sentence. Frantically, you try to reconnect. He doesn't even decline, just lets the invite idle. When you switch to chat, he's still logged in. You send him message after message, desperately trying to illicit a response. There's no answer. Eventually he logs off, leaving you feeling lost, unsure of what to do.


End file.
